by K. B. Owen
Perhaps, one day, we will work together again.
Sincerely,
Penelope Hamilton
* * *
Concordia smiled and took out her battered copy of The Tragedy of Macbeth. Out of it fluttered the card that had accompanied David’s flowers, and the torn sheet from Mary’s diary. She slipped the note inside with the rest, put the volume in a box, and resumed her packing.
THE END
Afterword
I hope you enjoyed the novel! Please consider leaving a quick review at your favorite online venue. A single sentence as to whether or not you liked it, along with clicking on the star rating you see fit, can go a long way! Ratings create a digital “word of mouth” that help readers find books they will love, particularly those written by independently published authors.
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Acknowledgments
It’s a great time to be a historical author, with the wealth of digitized historical material available on the world wide web. For anyone interested in the background research that went into the writing of this book, I’ve shared some wonderful primary and secondary sources on my website, kbowenmysteries.com. I’d love to see you there.
* * *
Even in our internet age, however, a writer needs to turn to real people– for facts, advice, or moral support. This page is to thank those people.
* * *
To Professors Susan Pennybacker and Andrew Walsh of Trinity College, Hartford, CT, and author Jan Whitaker, who helped keep my characters out of questionable establishments by providing information about respectable Hartford tea shops for women.
* * *
To Bert Johansen, co-author of Hartford County Trolleys and one of the directors of the Connecticut Trolley Museum, for the fascinating and enormously useful details about Hartford’s streetrail system in the 1890s. It was gratifying to make the trolley car Tuscan red.
* * *
To my agents, Miriam Goderich and Jane Dystel, who first believed in this project, even in the face of setbacks, and helped shape it. No author could ask for better professionals in her corner.
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To Sharon Pelletier at DGLM’s digital publishing program, who fielded my questions with professionalism and expertise.
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To graphic artist Melinda VanLone, who created such a beautiful cover. She can be reached at BookCoverCorner.com.
* * *
To Kristen Lamb and the generous community of fellow writers known as WANAs, who provided advice and support. We are truly not alone.
* * *
To author Michael J. Sullivan, for his invaluable expertise during the early stage of querying this book.
* * *
To author Mary Morrissy, for her wonderful mentoring, and the ladies of S.P.E.—you know who you are!
* * *
To my sons, Patrick, Liam, and Corey, who pitched in when deadlines were tight, and kept me grounded; to my parents-in-law, Steve and Lyn, who provided loving support; and to my parents, Ag and Steve, who listened, sympathized, and encouraged during all of the bumps along the way, just as they have with all of my endeavors.
* * *
But most of all, I want to thank Paul, my partner and my love. This would not have been possible without you.
K.B. Owen
February 2013
Ready for the next Concordia adventure?
Chapter 1 of Unseemly Pursuits, book 2 of the Concordia Wells Mysteries
Hartford Women’s College, Sept 1896
Week 2, Instructor Calendar
Literature professor Concordia Wells could not understand why such a fuss was being made over old objects that smelled like musty curtains. They weren’t even books, which at least would have been understandable. And yet, assembled in this lecture hall-turned-exhibit room were faculty, staff, assorted city dignitaries, and even a newspaper reporter, gathered around display cases of supposed treasures in the newly opened College Gallery of Antiquities.
It was a congenial space for such a purpose; plenty of natural light was provided by flanking rows of tall, pointed Gothic windows that reached nearly to the ceiling. The well-polished oak wainscoting, original to the building from its construction in 1822—when the college was a ladies’ seminary—lent a collegiate dignity to the hall, a promise of permanence for those who might consider future gifts.
“Colonel, may I ask what prompted your donation of Egyptian artifacts to the college?” The question came from the reporter at The Courant, scribbling rapid notes as he spoke. He was an older man, with a tall and muscular build, and large hands that swallowed up the tiny pencil in his grip. A well-worn bowler was pushed back and out of the way on his head as he bent over his notes.
Concordia pictured reporters as rabbit-like and underfed, their thin quivering noses always poking into the next story. This man looked more like the robust expressmen along Main Street, who hefted bulky packages as easily as feather pillows.
Colonel Adams, the collection’s principal benefactor, seemed annoyed at being interrupted in the midst of his dry lecture on Ancient Egypt. “I have long taken an interest in our local women’s college,” he said gruffly. “Now, recently retired from my military career, I have had more time to sort through the items.”
Concordia wriggled her toes in cramped boots and let her mind drift. What prompted this donation, the newspaperman had asked. She suppressed a sigh.
Actually, it had all begun with a knife.
A seventeenth century European bodice dagger, to be precise. She’d found it last year, while rummaging for props to use in the senior class production of Macbeth. Later, it had turned up in the chest of a college staff member. Last spring’s murder caused a local sensation from which the school was still trying to recover.
The discovery that the rhinestones at the base of the knife handle were in fact diamonds, and that the weapon was a rare historical artifact, sparked the idea of starting an exhibit at the college through further donations of antiquary. The college expanded the history department in order to catalogue and maintain the collection.
So Concordia blamed the knife, which she’d had the misfortune to find in the first place, for her presence here, when she could be grading student themes instead.
She turned her attention back to the newspaperman, who was asking more questions.
“Then your collection is an extensive one, sir? This is not the entirety of it?”
Concordia frowned. It seemed a strange line of enquiry, as the reporter was here to gather facts about the pieces in front of him, not the things that weren’t there.
“Oh, no, indeed. The colonel’s collection of antiquities is considerable,” a woman chimed in, moving closer to Colonel Adams and putting a proprietary hand on his arm. She was a comely, golden-haired lady in her thirties, her slim-waisted walking dress of hunter green setting off her curvaceous figure. Next to the white-haired-and-mustached colonel, she looked to be his daughter, but Concordia knew she was Lydia Adams, Colonel Adams’ recent second wife. And, therefore, the step-mother to Concordia’s closest friend Sophia.
Was Sophia here? Surely her friend would attend the event that featured her father so prominently, despite the settlement work which kept her so busy. Concordia and Sophia, both in their late twenties, had been friends since childhood. Neither of them was married: Concordia was busy with teaching at the college, and Sophia spent the majority of her time working with the poor at Hartford Settlement House, to the ongoing disapproval of her family. Especially Colonel Adams.
Concordia glanced from side to side, but people were too closely bunched together for her to see the entire room.
The reporter wasn’t finished with his questions. “Will you be making additional donations to the museum?”
Colonel Adams shook
his head. “I’ve not yet decided. My cataloguer still has to establish the extent of my acquisitions.”
With that, the colonel resumed expounding upon items of interest. He was shortly interrupted again, this time by the new history professor, Dorothy Phillips. She carefully picked up a smooth oval made of black stone, which nestled easily in her hand. Colonel Adams flushed a dusky red and stared as if he’d never seen it before.
“This heart scarab is a particularly exciting find,” Miss Phillips said. “The hieroglyphs on the back recount a typical spell of the time, asking the heart not to testify against the deceased in the weighing ceremony, and so be spared from Ammut the Devourer. But the material is quite unique: rather than glass or clay, it is lodestone, which has magnetic properties. Experts believe the ancient Egyptians used such stones for healing various ailments. Usually, though, they were used in pairs, but only one of these was found. Isn’t that right, Colonel?”
Adams nodded mutely, still staring at the object.
Faculty members at the periphery of the group craned their necks to see, while others surreptitiously checked watches or carried on whispered conversations with a neighbor. The Courant’s photographer repositioned his tripod for a picture of the president and lady principal with the colonel in front of a display case. Soon the bright flash and odor of magnesium filled the room.
Concordia sidled to her left to look for Sophia. Ever-cursed by a short stature, she had to stand on tiptoe to see over people’s heads. Ah, there she was. She recognized Sophia’s slim, angular form, her erect carriage and the elegant tilt of her head. Sophia stood beside the wall near the front of the room, no doubt where she would have a clearer view of her father. Next to her was a young girl whom Concordia recognized as Sophia’s sister Amelia. She had the same soft pale hair and brown eyes, although her face still held the chubby-cheeked remnants of babyhood. Concordia started to make her way over to them, slowed by the press of people.
“My dear, you must consult Madame Durand,” someone murmured nearby. Concordia turned. Mrs. Adams, who had wandered away from the limelight, was speaking to a portly woman she didn’t recognize.
“She is the best in her field at getting results,” Mrs. Adams continued. “We have already communicated with one person from the other side, and we are very close to making contact with another.”
As this seemed a more interesting discussion than the one they were all supposed to be listening to, Concordia paused and shamelessly eavesdropped. What other side did she mean? The Atlantic Ocean? China? And who was Madame Durand? The name seemed familiar.
“But how does she do it?” the portly woman asked.
“Oh, my dear, it is not for us to ask how,” Mrs. Adams answered. Her voice, though barely above a whisper, dripped with the condescension of one with exclusive knowledge. “Mediums inhabit another world, where our rules and reality do not apply. But Madame Durand is a most benevolent woman. She only wants to do good in the world, to help the bereaved who wish to talk with their departed loved ones once more.”
The heavy-set woman harrumphed. “I’ve heard about some of those tricks they use. A pack of charlatans, if you ask me.”
Concordia felt a chill settle in her spine. So it was that “other side”: the boundary between life and death. She didn’t think of herself as the superstitious sort, but felt certain that one should not meddle in such matters. She now remembered the name of Madame Durand, the spiritualist medium who had recently taken up residence in Hartford. The students were buzzing about the celebrity, especially since Madame had approached President Langdon about establishing a “spiritualist club” at Hartford Women’s College. The previous college president would have chased her out of the office; the mild-mannered Langdon, by contrast, had agreed to the proposal. Concordia didn’t care, so long as Madame Durand restricted her spirit-summoning activities to areas off-campus. The college did not need more tomfoolery than it already had.
A round of polite applause roused Concordia. The presentation was over.
Thank goodness. She could say hello to Sophia, then extricate herself and return to the Chaucer essays that required her attention. The group was thinning, with the newspaper reporter, photographer, and city dignitaries making a quick exit.
“Concordia!” Sophia cried when she saw her. She gave her a hug.
“It’s good to see you,” Concordia said. She looked down at the little girl, who gave a pretty little bob and smiled.
“My, how you have grown, Amelia!” Concordia exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in ages. How old are you now? Eight years? Why, you’re practically a lady.”
Amelia flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Miss Wells. I’m going to school now, too.”
“Wonderful! Be sure to study hard, if you want to be as accomplished as your sister.”
Now it was Sophia’s turn to smile.
“It was very generous of your father to donate so much of his collection,” Concordia added, looking down at the little girl.
Amelia plucked at a blond ringlet and started to play with it, looking up uncertainly at Sophia, who pulled her close and patted her head affectionately. “I’m afraid Amelia doesn’t quite know what to make of all these doings, but Father insisted we both come. I’ll be taking her back home—”
“Here are my favorite two young ladies!” a gravelly voice interrupted. Colonel Adams, accompanied by Miss Phillips, drew closer. The colonel stooped down to pick up the little girl. Sophia tightened an arm around her sister. Adams must have thought better in light of the occasion, and straightened up.
“We were just about to leave, Father. You remember my friend, Concordia?” Sophia said. Colonel Adams turned a sharp eye in her direction.
Concordia hadn’t been in the company of the colonel since she was a little girl. Strangely, even though the daughters were close and lived in the same neighborhood, their parents had never socialized; no doubt because the colonel was often away from his family during his military career. Sophia rarely spoke of him while growing up, but Concordia knew the relationship between the two had always been fractious.
In looking at him up close, she could see that he had aged well in the past two decades. Despite his thinning gray hair and heavily creased features, his eyes were bright and his figure still trim.
Colonel Adams was looking Concordia up and down in an appreciative manner. “I haven’t seen you since you were in a pinafore. You turned out well, my dear.”
Concordia blushed and changed the subject. “Thank you again, Colonel, for your generous gift to the college—”
Miss Phillips, a silent observer up to this point, broke in. “Oh, yes, most generous indeed. I look forward to cataloguing more of your collection, should you see fit to make a future donation. I participated in several digs myself. Is that how you came by your pieces?”
This new professor was certainly enthusiastic, Concordia thought. It was easy to believe that the woman standing before her had trekked through Egypt. Though of middle age, Dorothy Phillips was vigorous and sturdily built, without a hint of gray in her smooth brown hair, which was cut sensibly—though unfashionably—short. Her skin was also darker than fashion called for, doubtless from repeated sun exposure. The lady squinted through her spectacles a great deal, either because she needed stronger lenses or, as Concordia preferred to imagine, as a result of peering across sun-bleached desert expanses and into dark tombs.
Sophia gave Concordia’s hand a quick squeeze in good-bye as she saw her opportunity to leave with Amelia. The colonel watched them go, frowning, before he turned his attention back to the history professor.
“I acquired these artifacts through other collectors,” he answered stiffly. “I visited Egypt only once, and it was not an occasion I would care to repeat. I wonder at you making the trip, Miss Phillips. Rather an unseemly pursuit for a woman.” He looked around the room, as if searching for someone. “If you will both excuse me.”
He walked briskly down the hall, toward the Gallery’s lava
tories, leaving Miss Phillips flushed and Concordia open-mouthed in a retort she’d had no time to voice.
“How utterly rude,” Concordia said.
Miss Phillips shrugged. “I’ve dealt with far worse over the years, Miss Wells. At least it isn’t the prevailing opinion these days.”
Concordia checked her watch. “I should be getting back.”
A high-pitched female shriek stopped the conversations. All turned as one toward the lounge.
“I b-b-beg your pardon, miss!” It was the voice of Colonel Adams. He backed out of the door marked “Gentlemen,” looking flushed and confused. President Langdon rushed down the hall toward him.
“Oh, dear,” Dorothy Phillips murmured, with a glance at the side-by-side lavatory doors. “It looks as if someone has switched the signs.”
“Those students are a mischievous group of girls,” said a grinning Hannah Jenkins, who had joined them. “At least that reporter is gone. We won’t be reading about it in the papers.”
Miss Jenkins was in charge of the college’s infirmary. Her experience as infirmarian served her well in her roles as basketball and tennis coach, too. Hannah Jenkins’ snow-white hair and age-spot-mottled skin belied her ageless energy, and a twinkle of humor was never far from her eyes.
“That scream sounded like…Miss Pomeroy.” Concordia could barely speak in her effort not to laugh. Gertrude Pomeroy, one of the college’s classical language professors, was notoriously absent-minded. She would walk into a water-closet marked “Gentlemen,” if that was the door she was used to walking through. There seemed to be little room in her head for anything other than medieval French literature.